


Sticks and Stones

by maxcellwire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FrUk Halloween Week 2015, M/M, Mild Gore, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxcellwire/pseuds/maxcellwire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the depths of the dungeon, France wonders whether his people could ever truly give up on their nation. England does not allow him any time to doubt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticks and Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the prompt for day 3 of the Fruk Halloween Week, 'Voodoo Doll'. The relation is somewhat vague and more angry than creepy, but....oh well  
> Also this is kind of historical in that it's set in the past, but there's no specific time period (because I ran out of time for research), so none of this is accurate at all. Again: oh well.

The stone floor is cold and hard, the flagstones scraping France’s knees as he crawls into the corner of the cell, shuddering. It seeps into his skin, soaking into his mind, and the room is shrouded in the fog that rolls in from the tiny window. There are footsteps coming down the corridor, purposeful footsteps that echo off the bare walls of the dungeon, and that can only mean one thing.

England appears before him, dressed in all his finery. He bears the King’s regalia on his crimson coat, his shirt and trousers neatly pressed, his hair carefully brushed back. In the dim light from the lamps hanging on the walls, a ring glints on his finger.

“You’re in luck, frog; I’m in a rush today,” England tells him, pulling off his silk gloves and stuffing them in his pockets. “I’d rather not get dirty before dinner, so let’s keep this nice and simple, shall we?”

France is pretty sure his definition of lucky doesn’t line up with England’s.

His bones still ache from yesterday, purple bruises wrapping around his limbs, becoming sickly yellow spots as the days crawl on and on. His mouth is dry, his throat hoarse, his eyes irritated and swollen. No doubt England will have concocted something even more horrific for today, the beast, and one quick glance at the other’s face confirms France’s suspicions.

He feels himself being pulled towards the bars against his will, heels dragging against the floor as England guides him forwards, lips curled into a taunting smirk.

“Now, now, you know what’ll happen if you resist,” he warns, and France curses his magic, this unfair advantage with which England abuses his enemies. His own people would kill him if they knew, and oh! How France wishes he could tell them, and then watch them burn little England at the stake, like they burnt Jeanne, until only his ashes are left and are caught on the wild wind, never to be seen again.

Perhaps England has guessed what he is thinking, for France’s air is abruptly cut off as a hand grips tightly around his neck, and he feels fire blazing in his throat. England growls as he squeezes, fingers digging into France’s flesh, and all France can hear is the thunder of his pulse in his ears as he tries to gasp for air. His arms flail about, clutching desperately at England’s forearm, trying to yank him away, but he’s rapidly losing strength. His vision blurs at the edges, until England seems to melt into the walls, dissolving into a sea of grey brick and clanging metal and, from somewhere, the sound of a child’s pealing laughter, over and over and over.

The next morning, France’s king finds blood on his pillow.

The days blur into one. There’s blood and dirt under France’s fingernails and his skin is coated in a film of dust and sweat. His hair is greasy and straggly, and no doubt his face is worn and exhausted by the lack of sleep. This is torture enough, degradation at its finest, and England has known France long enough to know exactly how to wind him up. There is no mercy from him, no reaction except the laughter and the taunting and the maniacal stare of an empire riding high on stolen power.

Sometimes England will spend more time with him, take a seat in the corner of the room with the news and read out passages. His favourite stories are the ones about French affairs, and he takes great delight in telling France about the mysterious disappearance of a whole faction of his army, or the collapse of his economy and the subsequent starvation of the rural peasants. If he’s feeling generous, perhaps he’ll deign to give France his opinion, his advice.

“You should drink more fluids,” he says, or “You should take better care of yourself,” or “Have a rest every now and then, just to make sure that you’re not wearing yourself out.”

And then he laughs and laughs and France feels hollow inside.

On the day that England snaps his leg, France is sick. The crunch of his bone crashes against the walls, and the ensuing agony as it splinters into his flesh forces him to his knees, retching as he tips his stomach out onto the floor. England screws his nose up at the sight and taps his foot impatiently.

“What a mess,” he sighs disdainfully. “I ought to punish you for that.”

“It is punishment enough…just to see your face, _mon cher_ ,” France chokes out through gritted teeth, and he thinks perhaps that is the first genuine laugh he’s heard from England for decades, centuries even.

“Well if that’s the case, I should visit you more often, hmm?”

France scowls, too weak to do anything but lie on the floor and pretend that he doesn’t hurt all over, that his leg will heal soon enough, that there isn’t a necklace of bruises around his neck. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll find some sort of relief and be free from this hell, this endless nightmare of England and his torture and the screams of the French people that haunt his every moment.

“Oh, by the way,” England adds with an air of nonchalance, as though this hadn’t been the purpose of his visit, “your King died the other night. I heard that there were riots in Paris, but it might have just been a rumour.”

France’s blood runs cold, and he feels his chest getting tight, squeezing his lungs and his heart until he’s about ready to burst. The world tips on its side as he attempts to process this. His people need him, he needs his people; for they are one, bound together by the bond that they share. France is weak, the state is weak, and all it will take is a small nudge for him to fall off the edge.

England knows. He knows well.

The gloves are coming back on, covering up those vicious hands, pristine and stainless. Nobody would believe him if he told them what England had done, that savage in the guise of a gentleman. Until he is strong again, until his allies return and his land is plentiful, he is trapped, awaiting the next disaster.

England won’t even look at him anymore, instead checking his pocketwatch and adjusting his shirt. He waves a hand distractedly, already beginning to leave the chamber. France feels the oppressive silence approaching.

“Well then, I shall see you tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind an early rise – we have a lot to get through! And make sure you’ve cleaned up this mess by then, it really is rather unpleasant to look at.”

He blows out the lamp, and the darkness sinks in.

**Author's Note:**

> The general consensus seems to be that whatever happens to the state affects the nation-tans, but I wanted to invert this and explore how it could be if whatever happens to the nation-tans affects the state. It would surely be a great advantage when at war with another country to capture the nation and abuse them in order to weaken the opposition.  
> Hope you enjoyed, if that's possible....


End file.
